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Tuesday, 25 February 2014

Dock, Knock, Duck

My old friend the river returns: runs softly by, waves as
though we had seen each other only yesterday. Sit down, the burbles say, down
here on the felled tree bench. Swing your feet and dream. Sing Dock Of The
Bay. See how the foliage reflects, and the
sky, tessellating portions of coloured water. Line up sticks to lob for Dog,
it's safe for her to swim.

Time is out: not stopped or the river would
not move: we're just: out.

-Watching the ships come in-

A leaf plays the part, though it's
inexpertly navigated.

'Hey leaf, when's my ship coming in?'

It pretends not to have heard. Maybe it dislikes the cliché.

Clichaic: that should be a word. Should it? As in: read this novella, you'll
hoot, it's so clichaic. Favourite
cliché: suddenly there was a knock at the door. How does one knock gradually?
But it's nice that the knock arrives, expressly, to strike change in the
narrative. Most unforgettable use of a cliché category goes to the cheap noir
thriller where the hero, trapped by an armed man, lets the reader learn this: I
felt a sitting duck. Forgot the title, the
author, the story, the cover art long ago but this sentence is mine forever.

2 comments:

Oh I don't usually go on a tangent (well, ok) but you sent me back 40 years to when we'd take the babies and sit at Fisherman's Wharf in San Francisco. I recall 2 fellows with New York accents who'd traveled 3000 miles to sit there. They talked excitedly, then sang. I joined in on the whistling. Otis Redding would have held his ears but I hope he'd have been proud. Thanks for raising a charming memory, Lisa.